


Not What It Sounds Like

by Nock_and_Bolt



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Adorable Connor, Attempt at Humor, Comedy, Communication Failure, Connor Deserves Happiness, Crack Treated Seriously, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Drama, Eavesdropping, Family, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hank Anderson & Connor Friendship, Hank Anderson & Connor Parent-Child Relationship, Hank Anderson Swears, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, Light Angst, Misunderstandings, Music, Musical Instruments, New Jericho (Detroit: Become Human), Parent Hank Anderson, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Protective Hank Anderson, Sexual Humor, Some Humor, Worried Hank Anderson, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29769369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nock_and_Bolt/pseuds/Nock_and_Bolt
Summary: Connor has a secret lover, or so Hank thinks.That misunderstanding probably won’t cause too many problems. Right?(Or: The one where Connor plays the theremin)
Relationships: Connor & Gavin Reed, Connor & Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson & Connor & Sumo, Hank Anderson & Sumo, Tina Chen & Gavin Reed
Comments: 49
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you waiting for an update on my longer fix-it fic On the Other Side—I promise I'll get back to that haha, I was just seized by the idea for this ficlet and had to write it xD

Statistically speaking, it was a highly unlikely confluence of events that led to the entire ordeal.

It started when the local Guitar Center ran a sale on many of their instruments.

Connor had recently become fascinated by music, with its wondrous and strange mixture of mathematical synergy and expressive grace. He had heard Markus on the piano before, had seen how the deviant leader’s worries and fears all seemed to melt away as he channeled what words could not describe into delicate ivory keys. It was...magical, in a way. A genuine expression of human emotion. 

Perhaps that was why he stepped into the store. The Android Remuneration Act had recently granted androids the right to earn wages—if still significantly less than their human counterparts—and consequently Connor had a small but steadily increasing nest egg in his digital account. 

The RK800 saved most of his earnings, seeing no reason to purchase clothes or trinkets, and living with Hank meant he didn’t pay rent. Connor had tried to insist that he at least pay half the water and electricity bills, but Hank had refused, pointing out that the android didn’t use those utilities, anyway. 

“Besides,” the lieutenant had nudged Connor’s shoulder, “it’ll do you some good to collect some junk like the rest of us humans. Find out what you like. Discover a hobby or some shit.”

Picking up a musical instrument, Connor reasoned, certainly fell within the purview of a “hobby.”

The door swung open stiffly, getting stuck on the uneven carpet and sounding a clamorous peal of the door chime. An EM400 with shaggy auburn hair pulled back in a bun stood at the counter. Startling at the sudden sound, he threw a smile at Connor. 

“Welcome to Guitar Center, I’m Michael. How can I help you today?” 

Connor rubbed his hands together and gave the other android a perfectly executed social relations-programmed smile. “Ah, I’m just browsing,” he said and moved to slip down the nearest aisle. He would have much preferred his presence going unannounced.

“If there’s anything you need, please let me know!” Michael called after him. Connor ducked his head in a curt nod, shoulders creeping up a centimeter. Why did he come in here again? He was an investigative android. This was a music store.

Connor furrowed his brow. Music might have nothing to do with his designated function, but wasn’t that the point? This whole…“becoming human” thing. Doing things, not because you had to or because you were meant to, but because you wanted to? Because you enjoyed it?

He didn’t even know if he would enjoy any of it, though. 

_Only one way to find out, I suppose._

With that, a new mission crystallized in the RK800 and former Deviant Hunter’s mind. A personal mission. 

> Objective: Explore Potential Affinity for Musical Instruments

  * > Piano?

  * > Guitar?

  * > Drums?




The RK800 walked first to the assembly of electronic keyboards near the shop window and trailed a finger across a black 61-key Yamaha. It had nothing on the grand piano Markus had been gifted by Carl and subsequently had installed in New Jericho, but it did have some interesting settings and effects options. 

> ANALYZING…
> 
> Yamaha PSR-E273 61-Key Portable Keyboard Standard
> 
>   * 384 Voices + 17 drum/SFX kits, 130 auto accompaniment Styles
>   * 112 Songs, easy Song Book (available via web download)
>   * Nine-step lesson function (Yamaha Education Suite)
>   * Recording function, AUX IN jack for connecting an external audio source
> 


Nine types of reverb, five types of chorus…

 _Or you could just try playing it,_ an amused voice that sounded suspiciously like Hank said in his mind. Connor could practically see the lieutenant’s wry grin, hear the _go on, give it a try_.

Glancing around the store, Connor noted the only other customers included a young freckled boy and his overwrought mother, and an elderly Filipina woman arguing with the manager by the practice rooms in the back. 

Carefully, he plunked out a few keys, tested the various sound effects. It sounded tinny, nothing like the grand sweeping sonatas and concertos Markus had played. 

He shook his head. Piano was assuredly a worthwhile instrument to learn, but perhaps it’d be best to find something else, something completely new for which he had no comparisons. 

> Objective: Explore Potential Affinity for Musical Instruments

  * > ~~Piano~~

  * > Guitar?

  * > Drums?




Drifting towards the impressive array of acoustic, electric, and bass guitars lining an entire wall of the store, Connor had to refrain from analyzing each and every specimen. 

Guitar seemed promising; it was what the store was most well known for, after all...but then something else caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. 

Was that an amplifier? Some sort of misshapen channel strip? No, it was under the instrument section… The investigative android, naturally, felt drawn to investigate. 

A light walnut wood box covered in knobs stood in the corner with two brass rods protruding from it. One reached vertically from a horizontal extension of the box, creating a perfect right angle, while the other formed a lateral shepherd’s crook. 

Connor cocked his head to the side. 

> ANALYZING…
> 
> Moog Claravox Centennial Edition Theremin (Right Hand)
> 
> Pitch Range
> 
>   * Traditional Mode: 5 octaves
>   * Modern Mode: 4-7 octaves
> 

> 
> Sound
> 
>   * Traditional Mode: Analog Heterodyning Oscillator
>   * Modern Mode: Dual DCO/Wavetable Generator fed through Analog Waveshaping Circuit
> 

> 
> Controls
> 
>   * Waveshaper: Brightness, Wave, Filter, Switches for Mode and Mute
>   * Analog Delay: Delay Amount, Delay Feedback, and Delay Time
>   * Modern Mode only: Octave Range, Quantize Amount, Root/Scale Select, Pitch and Volume Response Curve...
> 


“Find something you like?” the long-haired EM400 materialized at his side.

Connor started and hastily readjusted his tie. “No, um, maybe—well, I don’t know. Could you tell me more about what this is?” he gestured to the strange instrument. 

The EM400 grinned. “Certainly! It’s one of our oldest instruments here, a real novelty. The theremin is an electronic musical instrument, first invented over a hundred years ago by a Russian physicist. It’s one of the few instruments in existence you play without physical contact.”

Connor turned to look at the other android a little better. “You don’t touch it at all?”

“Nope,” Michael said. “See, it generates electromagnetic fields around the two antennae, and your hands interact with it to vary the pitch and volume.”

The RK800 leaned in towards the theremin, optical units sweeping over it intently. “Fascinating.” 

The android had never heard of such an instrument before. The information about it was doubtless in his extensive databases somewhere, but he had never had cause to look into it.

“Here, I can show you some if you’d like,” Michael said and turned the contraption on. Adjusting some knobs, he issued a few warbling test notes with several flicks of his hand. Entranced, Connor watched as he plucked notes from the very air, drawing invisible lines of sweet melodies into existence with his right hand, regulating the volume with the rise and fall of his left.

“That’s incredible,” Connor breathed. The EM400 smiled, drawing his impromptu performance to a tremulous crescendo and finally settling his left hand back down to reduce the music to a soft, ethereal thrumming. Michael’s hands fell back to his side. He was probably imagining it, but Connor could almost feel the buzz of music waiting to be drawn out, the electric hum of notes unsung between the two antennae. 

“Pretty cool, huh? I’m a little rusty, haven’t had to exercise that program in quite a while,” Michael chuckled, “we don’t get many people here interested in the theremin.”

“I can’t imagine why not,” Connor said, staring at the intriguing yet unassuming instrument longingly. He sighed. “A little out of my price range, though,” he added, gesturing towards the somewhat alarming sticker price. 

He may not technically have anything better to spend his newfound salary on, but even the barely-a-year-old android knew it was unwise to drop close to two thousand dollars on a whim. 

“Hey,” the EM400 put a hand on his shoulder, “Tell ya what. Manager’s trying to unload some of our older stock and this sale’s continuing for the next week or so. Maybe wait a bit, come back a week from now, and see if you’ve changed your mind? Price might’ve even dropped some more by then. In the meantime, I could transfer the starting a downloadable program for basic knowledge on how to play it for thirty bucks.

“Theremins are tricky buggers, and it’s different for each person, so you’ll have to find what works for you. Other than the basics, you won’t be able to just download a program to play it. You’ll have to learn it the hard way, I’m afraid.”

Connor fingered the quarter in his pocket. “No, that’s...that’s perfect, actually.” It seemed fitting, somehow, that he would have to learn this from the ground up. No cutting corners, no unearned advantage because he was “the most advanced prototype CyberLife had ever created.” It would just be... _him_.

He stuck out a hand. “Consider it a deal.” 

The EM400 clasped arms with Connor, synthskin peeling back to facilitate the transfer of information. LEDs mirrored each other in circling yellows, processing Connor’s first purchase since obtaining a regular salary at the DPD. 

“See you in a week!” Michael said and gave a two-fingered salute.

“Yeah,” Connor’s mouth quirked, eyes flicking back to the theremin. “Yeah, see you.”

The next week could not pass quickly enough. 

By no means did it overtake the RK800’s thoughts or interfere with his investigative work, but it did simmer at a low burn on the back burner of his mind. 

That theremin was the only one left in stock, and while Michael said that they didn’t get many people in the shop interested in that particular instrument, it was a novelty, too, as the EM400 had mentioned, and Connor couldn’t shake the feeling someone would nab it while the price was dropping. 

Ideally, he’d like to get the instrument for as reasonable a price as possible, but the more time passed, the more he wished that he’d simply purchased it when he had the chance. 

_This is ridiculous. You don’t even know if you’ll be good at it_. But it surprised him to find that that didn’t matter to him. If anything, it’d be a welcome challenge if he _wasn’t_ good at it. It was easy to be good at things when it was programmed into you. But to work at something, to struggle and fight to achieve it? That rendered accomplishment all the more rewarding. 

It was part of why he enjoyed working at the DPD. No matter how perfectly equipped he was to analyze evidence, decipher human and android psychology, and combat potential hostiles, success was dependent not on individual skill, but on the dynamics of the opposing forces involved. No plan survives first contact with the enemy, and no skill is foolproof when set against another entity with their own skill, agency, and ingenuity. 

Yes, Connor had decided that the theremin was one personal endeavor he was determined to accomplish, no matter the effort that would go into it. He would wait the week he had decided on because he was _patient_ and frugal, and this was a rational, well-thought-out decision of personal development. 

He got several odd looks from the lieutenant throughout the week, though. 

“What’s got you so excited?” the grizzled lieutenant asked from the adjacent terminal.

“Excited?” Connor straightened and smoothed out his expression. “I’m not excited. I’m just reviewing the case files.”

Hank looked pointedly at where Connor’s leg was bouncing up and down incessantly under his desk. The investigative android snapped to attention and stilled his leg. It was hardly subtle, but it was also his only logical option.

“Nervous energy,” he brushed off. “Paperwork days are always kind of slow.”

“Uh-huh,” Hank tilted his head back to regard the android.

“What?”

Hank raised his eyebrows. “Noth’in, noth’in.”

…

On the day in question, exactly seven days after Connor had first meandered into the Guitar Center in Allen Park, he rushed in once more.

“Michael!” he called the android at the desk. “You may not remember me, but—”

“Oh, don’t worry, I remember you,” the EM400 grinned and took out a large box from behind the counter. Connor leaned on the laminate maple countertop and peered at the package.

“Is that—?”

The EM400 shrugged. “You couldn’t take your eyes off her since you first saw her. Haven’t seen someone so interested in quite a while, and I figured it wouldn’t do any harm to save ‘er for you.” He tapped the box. “Price went down, too. And if you ever want lessons, I can get you started. Consider myself intermediate on the whole thing.” 

Connor smiled, “Thanks, I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

Once he learned how to play, he couldn’t wait to tell Hank all about this.

* * *

Hank wished Connor would just tell him what the hell was going on.

He couldn’t tell if it was nerves or excitement, but the kid was definitely anxious about _something_. That damn quarter was perpetually pinging back and forth between the android’s hands, rolling over knuckles, and spinning on synthetic fingertips. Not to mention the flashes of consternation and frequent glances towards the nearest time-keeping device. Which was the equivalent of bouncing off the walls for someone who probably had a timestamp on the back of his fucking eyelids.

That whole episode of strangeness lasted about a week, and then his partner’s attitude pivoted to something that only served to make the lieutenant even more confused.

Hank had grown accustomed to Connor’s steady, even-footed gait at crime scenes. Though he had loosened up marginally after deviating, the investigative android still moved with methodical precision, every step calculated and movement measured while processors Hank couldn’t see whirred to fit the evidence into a coherent whole.

So he was understandably stymied when the kid started bouncing on the balls of his feet when standing in an elevator or waiting for the lieutenant to walk Sumo. And occasionally humming. And occasionally staring into space, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth.

Not that he had any problem with any of those things, but he _would_ like to know what had his friend in such a good mood. And maybe congratulate whatever-it-was for having such an effect on the normally unflappable RK800. Connor had always been reserved in showing emotion, so even these little displays...it was encouraging to see from someone whose primary introduction into the world of human emotion had consisted of tidal waves of guilt, horror, and desperation.

It wasn’t until he overheard a conversation by chance that everything started to come together.

Hank was washing the dishes, sleeves rolled back and lazy Saturday sunlight filtering through the window to spark off the suds in the sink when Connor’s excited voice carried inside from the backyard.

“Michael!”

Hank looked outside to see Connor’s fingertips drifting back down from his temple, LED canary yellow. Shrugging, Hank went back to scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain out of the bottom of a pot, one ear tuned towards the conversation outside.

“I’m good, thanks. Listen,” Connor said, reaching down to retrieve a partially gnawed-on tennis ball and turning it over his hands, “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day and I’d like to take you up on your offer. It’s been kind of hard, trying to figure this all out on my own.” 

Sumo woofed, thick tail sweeping behind him as he eyed the ball in Connor’s hand. The android ruffled the dog’s fur and tossed it across the yard. Sumo bound after it, hot on the trail.

“When are you available?”

There was a pause as whoever it was on the other end of the line—Michael, apparently—responded. Sumo returned, ball trapped between slobbery jaws. Connor nodded his head, “Yeah I can do then. The sooner the better,” he smiled, extracting the mangled toy from Sumo’s mouth.

“I assume I’ll meet you in the back?” the android tossed the ball once more, a glob of slobber slinging off the mangled toy. 

“Brilliant! It’s a date.”

Hank choked. He resisted the urge to clean out his ears with some of the soapy water coating his hands. 

_A date, huh?_

That was…new.

Nothing against the idea of Connor dating—hell, the kid could _use_ a little more happiness in his life. It just wasn’t...well, it wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Connor was nice enough to other members of New Jericho and the DPD, to the families of victims and witnesses they interacted with, but he’d never expressed any... _interest_ in anyone. The most he’d ever done was note Chloe’s appearance and that was back before he deviated, likely another product of that damned social relations programming.

And in all actuality, Connor could have just been setting up a meeting with someone from New Jericho to go over some new political activism campaign shit. Connor was always happy to help Markus and the others out, so it could just be nothing.

 _But that definitely did not sound like an arrangement for some sort of logistical appointment._ Not with that shy smile. _I’d like to take you up on your offer. The sooner the better. It’s a date._

Then there were all those instances of uncharacteristic giddiness, that impatient distractibility, that excitement, and poorly-concealed preoccupation.

Aw, hell. Connor was in love, wasn’t he?

Hank had to stifle his beaming grin as Connor reentered the house, Sumo trailing after him. He wouldn’t press the android about it. Connor would tell him when he was ready.

“Is something the matter, Lieutenant?”

Hank struggled to control his expression. “Oh, er, nothing,” he cleared his throat, “just happy to see you spending some time with Sumo. He doesn’t get a whole lot of exercise these days.”

 _Connor_. Going on a _date_. 

...

Going on a lot of dates, apparently.

“Heading out?” Hank closed his book, marking the page with his thumb.

Connor nodded, gestured towards the door. “I have an errand to run.”

Hank hummed. “An errand, yes. Very important to stay on top of those things. Good for, uh, morale. Mental health.” 

Connor frowned.

“Staying organized, I mean. And, you know, interacting with people outside of work.”

“A change of pace can be...good, yes,” Connor agreed cautiously. Hank beamed. This only seemed to heighten the android’s confusion.

“Well!” Hank slapped the armrests of his recliner. “I won’t keep you waiting. Have fun on your errand!”

Connor nodded slowly and turned to exit, blinking like his processors were struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

Over the course of the next two weeks, ill-defined “errands” turned into “meetings with the members of New Jericho,” but whatever the kid decided to call his little excursions, Hank was happy to encourage it all.

“I never knew you were so passionate about the movement,” Connor said as the lieutenant practically shoved him out the door on the way to his most recent “meeting.” 

Hank shrugged and pulled a beanie onto the RK800’s head while the android was busy tugging on his leather jacket. 

“ _Hank_ ,” the android waved the police Lieutenant off, but the dark, knitted cap was already fixed firmly in place.

“What can I say? I think androids are just as alive as any human. You’s should have the freedom to live how you want...love who you want...you know, build the lives you want for yourselves,” Hank said and adjusted the beanie to cover Connor’s ears. “What’s wrong with wanting to hurry that along?”

Yellow flecked the RK800’s LED and the android turned aside, shrugging on the rest of his jacket. “No, that’s not what I—I was merely puzzled by your sudden...exuberance,” he said.

Hank clapped the android’s shoulder. “Let’s just say you’ve been too good of an influence on me. Given this old bag of bones years back on his life.”

Connor smiled and pulled his beanie a fraction lower. “I too appreciate the influence you’ve had in my...admittedly shorter existence.”

Hank laughed and nudged the android. “N’go on. Get outta here, slugger.”

He wasn’t trying to get involved or anything. He was just...facilitating.

...He also wasn’t trying to get involved two weeks later when he accidentally became privy to a second private conversation between Connor and his mysterious boyfriend. He just happened to be in the right place at the right time. 

And if he’d ever had any doubts as to the nature of the two’s relationship, that overheard conversation was enough to clear things up.

“—really appreciated all your help, Mike. I think I’m ready to take this to the next level.”

Hank stopped with his hand inches away from the door, keys in hand and jacket half pulled on.

He was not deliberately eavesdropping, of course. Connor had been waiting in the driveway for Hank to get ready before they drove to work as they always did, and Hank was merely being courteous and allowing him to finish his conversation uninterrupted.

Connor laughed. “You’re certainly skilled with your hands, but I intend to get _lots_ of practice. Markus has lent me some space in New Jericho to not bother Hank, so I’m thinking of practicing _every_ night.”

Another pause.

“That’s right you better watch out,” Connor said teasingly, “I always accomplish my mission, after all.”

Hank spun on his heel, biting his fist to not laugh out loud. He had no idea the kid was such a damn _flirt_. He also wasn’t sure if he was more proud of the kid for getting it on or concerned by how quickly this relationship was progressing. Getting a shared space in New Jericho? It had only been, what, three weeks since this had all started? Two or so since they’d set up their first date?

“Hey, next time we meet, I’d like to interface and show you something I’ve been—mhmm. Yeah. Read my mind.” Another pause. “Okay, yes. I’ll see you then.” 

Relatively sure the conversation was over, Hank made a show of loudly pouring some more food into Sumo’s already-full bowl, which the canine didn’t seem to mind. 

“Be a good dog, Sumo,” he called loudly for good measure before finally exiting the front door.

“Sorry about that,” he said gruffly, locking the door behind him and pulling his jacket around him.

“No worries,” Connor replied, “I didn’t mind waiting.” 

_I’m sure you didn’t,_ Hank thought.

He may or may not have had to conceal his grin the entire ride to the DPD. 

...

It wasn’t until Connor really did start disappearing each night that a horrible thought struck the police lieutenant. 

_Oh, fuck._

Was he going to have to give Connor _The Talk?_

Blue eyes flew open to stare at the darkened ceiling of his bedroom, his mind scrambling. Clearly, Connor and his boyfriend were getting up to some late-night _activities_ , but how far were they taking things? Did Connor know enough to be safe about it? The RK800 had never been in a relationship before, he was only recently deviant, and he had only been activated last August, hadn’t he? Hank chewed his lip.

His limited experience parenting had not prepared him for this. 

Would it have been like this with Cole?

He shook his head. Connor wasn’t Cole. He was a full-grown, one-year-old android man. He was born an adult. He could make his own decisions; he could hook up with whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

But wait—how much could the kid even…? 

Hank knew that WR400s, HR400s, and some housekeeping and “personal companion” androids had the necessary...hardware for all sorts of things. But Connor was an investigative android. He couldn’t imagine why CyberLife would construct him with...well, he supposed the android _was_ programmed for undercover work, and that might conceivably entail more unorthodox kinds of “negotiation” tactics. 

Christ, he did not want to be thinking about this. This was too weird. This was _Connor_ , for fuck’s sake. 

But could androids get some sort of cyber-equivalent of STDs? Did they do some janky shit with their wires or retractable synthskin that could somehow transfer viruses or corrupt code? How the fuck did Hank talk with an android about safe sex?

Calloused hands dragged down his face. _First things first, he hasn’t even told you he’s seeing anyone yet._ And no fuck’in way was he going to broach the subject of so-I-might-have-eavesdropped-on-your-conversations-and-noticed-your-late-night-excursions by launching into a _sex talk_.

He would have to be subtle about this. He would gently encourage Connor to open up to him about Michael. Or he could give vague and timely advice about safe sex practices. Just weave that into the conversation. 

Real subtly. 

As one does. 

Yes. 

Nothing could possibly go wrong with that approach.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, guys, gals, and non-binary pals, to the single most ridiculous thing I have ever written. 😂

Strangely enough, an opportunity to put his half-baked plan into action soon presented itself. And even more strangely, it was one Detective Gavin Reed that aided him in the endeavor.

Reed could always be depended upon to make crude jokes at inappropriate times. Hank would never in a million years have thought that this would eventually prove useful. 

Guess this month was just _full_ of surprises.

Hank and Connor were walking towards one of the interrogation cells when the detective’s coarse and obnoxious voice could be heard as they passed the breakroom. As the detective was wont to do, he was leaning against the standing table with a cup of coffee near at hand.

“and then _I_ said, well, a kiss will make your whole day but anal will make your hole _weak_ —”

Connor rolled his eyes and looked at Hank, ready to share in their ongoing mutual exasperation with the man’s antics when Hank decided it was time to assist his adoptive android son in his new relationship or die in the embarrassment trying. 

“But you gotta remember to use lubrication,” he said, perfectly casual. “That’s very important. Avoids uh, tears and pain and shit.” He glanced at Connor, who had frozen mid-step. Gavin and Tina stared at Hank. 

“Of course, it might be different for androids,” the lieutenant continued, persisting in digging his professional reputation a freshly minted grave. 

He cleared his throat, hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, rocked back on his feet. “Yup. That would be something to look into,” he said. “You know. If someone—young, and, uh, inexperienced were interested in that sort of thing.” He looked again at Connor to see if any of this was sinking in. The expression of abject horror on his face was probably a good sign it was, right?

“You know what else is important?” the gray-haired man forged bravely on. 

“Uninterrupted coffee breaks? A way out of this conversation?” Gavin muttered into the lid of his coffee and downed a swig of it like a shot. He grimaced, apparently disappointed the drink was not, in fact, alcoholic.

“Consent,” Hank nodded firmly and spared another glance at Connor. “I mean, what good is oral when there’s no oral _consent_ too, am I right?”

Gavin choked, spewing unswallowed droplets of coffee as wracking coughs shook his frame. 

Tina thumped him on the back several times but Gavin waved her off, hand flapping uselessly and green eyes watering.

“Don’t need to do that—I, just— _phck’in coffee_ —esophagus was not prepared for that—Tina make him go _away—”_

Hank resolutely ignored his own mounting mortification by rounding on Reed, arms akimbo. “What, do you disagree?”

The detective coughed one last time, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and glaring at the taller man with reddened cheeks and familiar levels of truculence. “Of course not! _Obviously,_ you need phcking cons...phcking hell, what are we even talking about. Tina. Tina, help.”

Tina slung an arm around the shorter detective’s shoulders and beamed at Hank. “Have to remember those condoms, too. Internal and external.”

_“Tina!”_

“Exactly,” Hank said proudly. He cleared his throat. Now if only Connor would stop looking like he was blue-screening, he’d say this subtle intervention was going fairly well. Hopefully, _some_ of the advice had made it through the wall of white noise that seemed to be plaguing the RK800.

“As I said, though, you never know how different things might be with androids. Definitely would, erm, recommend looking into that more.” 

He probably should have done some more of his own research on this, if he was honest with himself. But one didn’t often come across opportune moments to weave safe sex talk into everyday conversation. He thought this was going rather smoothly, all things considered. 

He could almost ignore the burning in his neck. 

And that high-pitched whine emitting from Connor’s vocal modulator. 

It was probably him just processing things. Mulling things over. 

Yeah.

“What do you think?” he turned to Reed. 

“Why the _phck_ would I know?” The shorter man exploded and pushed back from the table, throwing his hands in the air and beseeching the ceiling tiles. “What the PHCK is this conversation? WHAT THE PHCK IS—” 

“—RIGHT,” Hank spoke loudly over the shorter man’s protests. “Well—we’ll just be—getting to interrogating that suspect now. Have a nice day!” he grabbed Connor’s arm and dragged the still-paralyzed android after him. 

He was savvy enough to know when he wasn’t welcome somewhere anymore, and this had already been a surprisingly productive conversation if he did say so himself.

There was a long, pregnant pause, and then Gavin and Tina’s voices drifted down the hallway after them. 

“What...the _phcking hell_ ...was _THAT?”_

“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure whatever it was, it was meant for Connor. Did you see how he kept looking over at him?”

“Phcking hell, are you saying I was an unknowing accomplice to that walrus’ attempt to proposition _Connor?_ Right the phck in front of us?” 

“Wouldn’t give him any points for style, but he sounds like a very considerate partner. Didn’t seem like Connor was into it though.” 

“Would it kill you to have a normal human reaction to this.”

“What, like screaming at the ceiling or impersonating a fountain? And, you know, it’s _also_ possible Connor was just embarrassed about the way Hank went about it.”

“Tina. Priorities.”

“I _do_ have my priorities. You owe Chris fifty bucks if they go through with it.”

If Connor’s sudden tenseness was anything to go by, he had also heard the last part of that exchange. Hastily, Hank dropped Connor’s arm.

Standing outside the interrogation door, Connor clenched and unclenched his hands, visibly longing for his calibration coin.

The RK800 took a deep breath, “Lieutenant, er—you’re a very fine officer, but, um—”

Hank waved his hands as if swatting away a horde of flies. “No no no, that wasn’t—I understand you’re not, er, available. And I wouldn’t want to anyway! I mean—I’m sure you’re considered a very nice young man to many people, but—you’re like a son to me, and a good partner—but not that kind of partner, more of a, uh, a coworker that happens to be a good friend, who might also live with me but in the most incredibly platonic and non-romantic way, and—”

“Can we go interrogate the suspect now?” Connor said in a small voice, directing his plea somewhere between the floor and the door to the interrogation room.

“Dear God, yes.”

...

That particular episode at least served to bring it to Hank’s attention that he really did need to do more of his own research on androids before he could continue in his campaign of subtle advice-impartment. 

Thus, one night after Connor had left and would not be back for several hours, Hank pulled out his old laptop and embarked on the dubious internet quest of discovering what intimate activities androids did to consummate their romantic relationships.

After weeding out an absurd amount of over-dramatized robo-porn websites and discovering that “wire-play” was not, in fact, a real thing, and potentially hazardous to an android’s health if any vital biocomponents or thirium-carrying veins got damaged, twisted, or disconnected, he finally happened upon what seemed to be a reputable source.

Huh. _Deep-dive interfacing_. _More comprehensive than the usual interfacing that occurs when androids share data, deep-dive interfacing is a way for androids to share memories and experiences in a “cerebral synchronicity” that requires the use of specially designed deep-dive drivers_ …

Apparently, there were advancements being made quite rapidly due to the spread of deviancy and more androids engaging in intimate relations. 

Hank wasn’t sure if he would ever want that kind of telepathic closeness, but it seemed to be the favored thing to do among androids. And for those androids capable of physical intercourse, it apparently added a depth of intimacy that Hank was trying his hardest not to imagine his surrogate son engaged in.

So, pushing aside thoughts of Connor and his mystery boyfriend sharing a consciousness while in the sack—oh fuck he was going to have to scrub his mind clean after this—he elected to focus on the facts. If Connor was into this, he’d need to have the right kind of updates to do it. Hadn’t he overheard something about the kid wanting to interface with Michael the next time they hooked up? He rubbed his eyelids. Hopefully, he could talk to the kid about it before he and his partner got into anything too serious.

The website said that attempting a deep dive interface without the driver installed could lead to corrupted code and weaken firewalls to various kinds of malware. That certainly didn’t sound good. Interfering with biocomponent functionality and system status regulatory networks... 

Hank yawned and checked the time. He groaned. It was too damn late for the fresh fountain of worries springing up from every corner of his mind. Resolving to bring this up with Connor the next day, he allowed himself a mental pat on the back for discovering something that might actually be useful to Connor in his first foray into the complicated realm of relationships. With the kinds of horror stories about unprotected deep dive interfacing the site laid out, it was a good thing he had managed to stumble across this timely bit of information. 

Considering Connor’s reaction the last time he brought up, er....relational intimacy in public, Hank decided to broach the subject with the android _before_ they arrived at the station.

It was a bright Tuesday morning, sun filtering through recently cleaned windows. Hank sat at the kitchen table eating a piece of toast with Sumo at his feet when Connor rebooted from stasis, ten minutes prior to when they normally left for work.

“Good morning, Hank.”

“Mornin’.”

The older man yawned and stretched, scrolling through his phone with supreme nonchalance. “Saw an article about androids needing to get software updates and shit,” he grunted. “Apparently there are some deviants having trouble getting access to them now that they have to pay for everything on their own…’ve you been able to get all the updates you need?” 

Connor stood and smoothed down his clothing, “I always keep up to date.”

“Good, that’s good...you make sure to get those deep-dive drivers too, right?”

The RK800 stilled from the corner of Hank’s eye, hands paused amidst their tie-adjusting. “No. Those are not a pressing concern.” Connor blinked, LED turning a circle of yellow. 

“I’ll be out in the car when you finish your toast,” the RK800 said and beat a hasty retreat. 

Bushy silver eyebrows drew down Hank’s face, wrinkled with concern. The kid was doing who-knew-what with his android boyfriend and he didn’t even have the right upgrades installed?

Lips pressed in a firm line, Hank was sorely tempted to pursue the matter further. But he couldn’t ask more directly about it without cluing the RK800 in to the fact that he knew about his secret lover. He’d need to get the kid to open up to him first.

He chose his moment carefully, at the end of a workday when they were driving back from the station. For once he declined to turn on his usual rib cage-rattling levels of heavy metal music.

Connor cocked his head and leaned forward to catch Hank's eyes. “Is everything alright, lieutenant? You seem preoccupied.”

Hank huffed a laugh. Of course the damn droid would immediately turn this around on him. “I’m fine, kid, don’t worry,” he said. Gravel crunching under tires, Hank pulled his old Ford Del Rey out to join the far greater number of self-driving vehicles on the road. He hesitated, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. _Fucking hell, just go for it._

“You know that you can tell me anything, right?” the older man said, blue eyes flicking to the android then fastening back on the road. 

“Of course,” Connor replied, and Hank could _hear_ the fuck’in frown of puzzlement in his voice. Fuck. Was he really gonna make Hank draw it out of him? 

“I won’t judge,” he added helpfully.

“I’m...not sure where you’re going with this.” 

Hank rubbed a hand across his beard. Might as well be as tactfully direct as possible. “Is there something you’ve been, ah, keeping from me? I noticed you’ve been leaving the house on some—er, _non-case-related_ trips.”

Connor snapped to attention like a rubber band. “No! I’m not—I’m not _keeping_ anything from you. I was planning on telling you, I’ll show you when I’m good at—I’m just not quite ready yet, that’s all.”

“That’s fine,” Hank hastened to reassure the android, “I don’t mean to pressure you, just—aw, hell. Look, take all the time you need, I’m happy to wait.”

He could’ve kicked himself. Connor was a private person, of course he didn’t want the lieutenant prying into his personal affairs. It was the first relationship Connor had ever been in for all of his short existence. And Hank could remember what that was like, however long ago it might have been. That feeling of having something special, something no one else in the entire world would understand. 

Wanting to keep it that way, just the two of them.

Connor would introduce him to Michael when he was ready. He’d just have to be patient.

“Good, ah. Good talk,” he said, and wondered when this had become his life. Eyes staring holes into the asphalt road in a way that was most certainly not an attempt to avoid Connor’s gaze, he fumbled to turn on the radio. The dial spun past its normal position tuned to his preferred station, however, and new-age synth-pop electronic dance music blasted out of the speakers. 

“Fuck!” he groused, resetting the radio to its proper channel. “Fuck’in Here4You. That shitty electronic music is all over the place. Can’t get away from that techno-garbage.” He sighed, taking the vehicle into a wide turn. “Whatever happened to some nice old-fashioned guitar, or saxophone? But no, people only care about synthetic shit these days,” he huffed.

* * *

Connor froze, the lieutenant’s words ringing in his audio processors. Oh. So the lieutenant—so he didn’t approve of electronic music. Thoughts cast back to his theremin, and the song he was working his way up to learning to show Hank. The song he would now never show Hank.

_Won’t judge, huh?_

That was fine. This was good information. He was glad he didn’t divulge to the older man what it was that had been occupying all his time lately. Now he knew that sharing his newfound passion would not be welcome. 

It was pathetic, really, thinking back to the care he’d taken to set up a discreet practice area in New Jericho to not disturb Hank. To keep it a surprise for when he was skilled enough to show the man what he’d learned. 

He’d been so foolish. All that effort, and for what?

Of course the one non-work-related thing Connor took an interest in would be “synthetic shit.” Well, he would just have to be considerate of the lieutenant’s opinions. He’d only promised to tell him when ready, and who was to say that date couldn’t be “never”?

They sat in silence the whole ride home, and he could hardly wait until the lieutenant finally went to sleep. 

“Night, Connor,” the silver-haired man yawned, waving a short farewell after the thirteen minutes and twenty-six seconds it took for him to complete his nighttime ablutions. 

“Goodnight, lieutenant.”

The man’s bedroom door had hardly closed before the RK800 was up, pulling on a hoodie and slipping out the back door. 

The chill night air brushed against the synthskin of his face and he sighed. No matter the occasional discomfort it could cause, he always kept his thermal sensors activated. As Hank had once said, _what’s life without the contrast?_ The original quote had a significantly greater number of expletives peppered in there as well, of course, but Connor had gotten the gist of the lieutenant’s meaning.

Connor turned down the street, setting off at a brisk pace to counteract the cold now seeping through his layers of clothing.

The trek to New Jericho was a familiar and well-trodden path. The rhythm of his feet hitting the pavement usually formed a perfect four-four time cadence with which he could practice his scales and whichever piece of the music was giving him the most trouble before he got to his practice area, but tonight he merely stuffed his hands in his pockets and watched the city lights grow denser as he exited the suburban neighborhood around Hank’s house.

New Jericho was not a freighter like its namesake, rather more of a part-office building, part-shelter for homeless deviants, part-headquarters for Markus’ ongoing political activism and civil rights efforts. Markus had been kind enough to let Connor keep his theremin there, and Connor had staked out a small covered section of the roof to store the instrument and practice with it undisturbed.

Winding his way up the stairs, he waved a greeting to Josh when they crossed paths, stepping out of the PJ500’s way to let the other pass with his armful of boxes. 

“Thanks,” the taller android smiled. Connor just ducked his head, still unused to the other’s welcoming attitude. Markus had probably just instructed the others to act friendly, anyhow. He knew some of the members of New Jericho were still leery of him, former “Deviant Hunter” and everything. He wouldn’t have intruded at all, not even to ask for space on a corner of the rooftop, except… Well, other than Hank’s, he really didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Eventually, Connor made it up to the roof of the building. Pushing the thick metal door open, a brisk wind swept back across exposed skin and rustled through his clothes. Inhaling deeply, he surveyed the twinkling Detroit skyline before turning to the covering where the theremin rested.

It stood off to the side, near the edge of the building. He removed the covering he had placed over it for extra protection from the elements and set about tuning it to his body and surroundings. Adjusting the dial for pitch until the lowest note was about where his chassis rested, he then measured out the handspan of an octave, precise flicks of his wrist and fingers drawing a scale into life. He smiled. He loved the feel of holding the music in his hands, the tickle of electromagnetism between his chassis and his hands, and the boundaries of this small roof.

_Techno-garbage._

Connor frowned, shook the thought from his mind. This was _his_. It didn’t matter what Hank thought of it.

But as he raised his hands to begin, he realized that many of the songs he had been working towards were primarily ones that he thought Hank would enjoy. More of the jazz genre than Knights of the Black Death material, but he _had_ even tried to tackle converting one of those _energetic_ songs into something he could play on the theremin.

What was the point of practicing those now? 

He shook his head. It was fine. He had other things he could work on. Michael had recommended "The Swan" by Saint-Saëns for vibrato practice. Connor had privately been eyeing Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” as a small side project. And of course, “Flight of the Bumblebees” would be an interesting challenge, one he had put off in favor of focusing on what he might be able to show the lieutenant… Hands clenching, he half-startled himself with the sharp downwards glissando it wrung from the air. 

Connor blew out a breath and removed his hands from the area of the electromagnetic field. Walking across the roof and back, he shook out his hands then rubbed them together. _Stop overthinking this._

But it seemed that once he got back to practicing that _overthinking_ was all he could do. He had grown to love the theremin, the experience of playing it, the subdermal buzz of the electric field humming in harmony with his biocomponents these past couple weeks, and yet somehow all he could think about was the grimace on Hank’s face in the car earlier. 

The RK800 slipped up on his tremolo— _synthetic shit_ —misjudged the distance between notes— _can’t get away from it_ —tripped over the left-handed articulation— _shitty electronic music_.

He growled, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You’re just being stupid,” he murmured. 

Stupid or not, for the first time since his earliest attempts at playing the instrument, he came away from his practice session irritated and disheartened rather than refreshed and relaxed.

Deciding to turn in early for the night, he turned off the theremin and re-covered the instrument. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and tried to escape without anyone noticing his leaving far earlier than he usually did. 

A week passed, then two. The sour feeling in the pit of his stomach only grew. 

_This is absurd. You’re being absurd._

But no matter how many times he told himself that the emotions he was feeling were petty and useless and way out of proportion to the situation, he couldn’t help but feel hurt.

He had always tried to give anything Hank liked a fair chance. Some things the man enjoyed that Connor didn’t particularly care for or understand, but he always made an effort, and he respected everyone’s individual preferences. 

_Maybe if you told him this was something you liked, then he’d do the same for you._

But he wouldn’t impose that on Hank when he so clearly despised any kind of electronic music. The lieutenant had had the same kind of vitriol in his voice as when he talked of the rapidly dwindling appreciation for physical books or even the treatment of the Eden Club androids. Connor sighed.

Why did feelings have to be so irrational? 

He understood, cognitively, that Hank cared about him and that this wasn’t really a big deal, and yet—and yet Hank’s approval of his interests mattered to Connor more than he was comfortable admitting. To have such solid evidence that he _didn’t_ approve and was in fact _repulsed_ by something Connor genuinely enjoyed—it crawled like static across his synthskin and weighed down his internal biocomponents with lead. 

Unfortunately, his frustration must have been far more visible than he’d have preferred, for the lieutenant kept shooting him concerned glances and the occasional inquiries as to what was bothering the android throughout the week.

“I am fine, lieutenant,” the RK800 intoned, standing up from his terminal with the thought that a trip to the break room wasn’t unwarranted.

“You needn’t worry,” he reassured the man with perhaps a tighter jaw than strictly necessary and proceeded to investigate all areas of the crime scene where the lieutenant was _not_.

“I appreciate the concern, but it is nothing of importance and you should focus on the investigation,” he said, interrupting the man mid-question and exiting the car before the man could say anything else.

He should have known that it would eventually all come to a head. The lieutenant was never one to back down from a challenge, and he was displaying an inexplicable tenacity in his efforts to get to the bottom of what was currently bothering Connor.

It was after a particularly unproductive and vexing late-night practice session that the lieutenant confronted the android. 

The RK800 closed the back door roughly behind him as if to shut out the echoes of his failed attempts to master a difficult run. He was better than this. They were just stupid sixty-fourth notes, he was a _machine_ , he shouldn’t _need_ to use a tremolo pedal, he should be able to hit each individual note with _unfailing precision_ —He clenched his teeth. _Just forget about it for now. You can take a stasis, do what you need to do at the DPD, and then come back to it later._

Apparently, that was not meant to be, however. When Connor turned to take his usual spot on the couch it was to find Hank already up and waiting with the light on.

“We need to talk,” the lieutenant said.

“Yes, I can see that you’ve arranged yourself so as to facilitate that endeavor.”

“Cut the programmed crap, will ya?” Hank shook his head, then rubbed his eyes. “Please. Just—sit down. There are some things we should get out in the open.”

Connor kept his face perfectly neutral and drew up one of the kitchen chairs to face the lieutenant. “Apologies, I’ve just been a touch...frustrated, lately.”

Hank nodded like he’d been expecting that and leaned forward. “And I haven’t been completely honest with you,” he said, rubbing his thighs and taking a deep breath. “I know what you’ve been up to.”

“What?” 

Hank knew? And hold on—what he’d been _up to?_ He knew the man didn’t like electronic music but did he have to make it sound so _sinister?_

“I know where you’ve been going, and I have a pretty good idea what’s been occupying your time. I know about Michael.”

Connor blinked. “What about Michael?”

“Are you still seeing him?”

“No.” Connor had surpassed the Guitar Center worker’s abilities roughly a week after Hank had made the comment that threw his concentration for a loop. He wasn’t about to keep paying for lessons when he could learn just as well on his own. 

“I don’t need to see him anymore,” he said. “I no longer require his services.”

Hank recoiled as if slapped. “You _no longer require_ his— _Connor_ .” He frowned. “You shouldn’t just treat it like some kind of...some kind of _business_ transaction.”

“But that’s all it was!” Connor exclaimed, bewildered at the vein of this conversation. Why was Hank making such a big deal out of this? For it certainly seemed to mean a lot to Hank if that horrified expression was anything to go by.

“That’s no way to—”

“Oh, and you know all the right ways to do things, don’t you,” Connor muttered, the irritation that had been buzzing in his veins returning with a vengeance. Hank raised his eyebrows.

“Excuse me?” 

Connor shifted and folded his arms protectively about himself. The hurt had been building for days had finally found an outlet and now came bubbling out, the words tripping over his lips in their haste for release. Hank wanted honesty? Fine, he would get it then. “ _Nothing_ ,” he said, “Just that when I finally find something _I_ enjoy it suddenly becomes a problem because _you_ don’t agree with it.”

Because _honestly?_ Staging an intervention over his playing the _theremin?_

Hank opened and closed his mouth, apparently at a loss for words. “I’m not against you having a little fun, but I have to say, I didn’t think you were the kind of person to think like this. It’s not right to for you to—”

Connor stood up, kitchen chair scraping back. “It’s not _right_ for me?” 

This was so much worse than he’d thought. 

“Why is such a harmless little hobby so offensive to you?” 

Hank rose from where he was sitting to match him, a stern set to his gaze. “It’s hardly harmless, Connor. It could be corruptive if you’re not careful.” 

Connor looked at the lieutenant in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?” RA9, he knew the other man liked his music but wasn’t it a little _much_ to go calling the genres he didn’t like _corruptive_?

“Look, I just want what’s best for you, kid, and I’m just worried about the way you’ve been going on.” Hank pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did you ever even get those deep-dive drives? For the future, when you’re...er...even if you haven’t used it until now?”

“That’s hardly relevant,” Connor scoffed. Was the lieutenant just bound and determined to disparage every aspect of his personal life now? What business did he have criticizing him for not getting all the latest and greatest updates even if they were _entirely unnecessary_ to his functioning? 

Did the man even know how personal that kind of question was for an android? 

“Besides, a deep-dive driver would only get in the way of my playing,” Connor said dismissively and witnessed what appeared to be a spectacular attempt to choke on air. 

_“It would only get in the way of your playing?”_ Hank repeated faintly. 

Connor frowned. The other man probably had no idea what a deep-dive interfacing driver was for. 

“Yes,” he explained patiently, “I want my instrument free from any barriers, and a driver would only interfere with the electromagnetic flow between my hands when I—”

Hank buried his face in his hands, “Please, dear God, I do _not_ want to hear about your ‘instrument’ or any electro-whatever flowing _anything_ , you can keep the details to yourself.”

 _“Fine_ , I’ll refrain from scarring you with the _gory details_ of the only thing that’s actually given me any pleasure outside of work since it’s so inconvenient for you,” Connor snapped. 

Hank made a small, strangled noise. 

Connor knew his tone was likely not helping matters any, but he had been keeping all his thoughts inside for far too long. Now to find out the lieutenant had an even more intense hatred for electronic music than Connor could have possibly guessed? It was too much. He needed a stasis to even out his processors and settle the software e—the emotions messing with his head. 

But Hank wanted to have this conversation _now_ , apparently, so that’s what they were going to do.

“Some things don’t _have_ to be shared,” the older man said, evidently feeling the need to drive the wedge of hurt just that much deeper. “Though if you _really_ want to tell me, I will listen,” he offered. 

But Connor didn’t need to be CyberLife’s most advanced prototype to read the expression of _deep and unfathomable discomfort_ on the other man’s face as he said this. 

_I had no idea the mere_ notion _of the theremin could be so completely abhorrent to someone_ , the RK800 thought bitterly. But he was still learning about human emotions, and if there was one thing he knew, it was that they could get wound up about the strangest things.

“I want you to be happy, but I also want to warn you about the way you’re trying to go about this,” the gray-haired man tried again, but Connor had heard enough.

“Right, because you’re the only one who knows the _right_ way to go about things. Now you’re starting to sound like Amanda,” he said and strode to the door, ignoring the look of shock and hurt that flashed across Hank’s face.

 _“Connor!_ Where the hell are you going?”

“On a _walk_ ,” he said and yanked open the door. “Unless you find that pastime objectionable as well?” 

Leaving before the other man could get a word in edgewise, the door snapped shut behind him.


End file.
